


The Boys Are All Electric

by somuchlighter



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Fluff, M/M, Nothing serious, Tattoos, implied past zerrie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somuchlighter/pseuds/somuchlighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still, it was a little anticlimactic when Louis went home to his small loft and finished the day’s work, thinking about a stubbled, fit, tattoo-covered beautiful artist in the shop he owned.<br/>(tattoo parlor AU)<br/>title from "fluorescent adolescent" by arctic monkeys</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> recommended listening for this chapter: ["take a walk"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZX6Q-Bj_xg) by passion pit and ["poor girls"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOdtaI6lUX0) by paul baribeau.  
> 

Louis liked to think of himself as well-rounded. He’d got decent marks in school and he went to uni the first chance he got and he didn’t so much settle for his current office job, but he was practical and it suited his needs, since his needs were to be living on his own with a marginal amount of income. So, yeah, he thought he was doing fairly well, especially considering he hadn’t even had to pull on any of his family’s connections in order to land the job.

Louis was pragmatic and doing okay on the job front, but he was bored.

Day in and day out, he clocked in and went to his desk in the room with no windows and fluorescent lights and did whatever menial task was assigned to him that day. In a word, it was monotonous. And while Louis appreciated his slightly-above-minimum-wage, significantly-better-than-intern income, he also felt like he was trapped. After all, he’d moved away from Doncaster to be near London, to be near new places and new experiences and life, and here he was working at a run-of-the-mill job at 22. He didn’t even have any hope of moving up in the corporation and, frankly, he wasn’t so keen on the idea anyway.

He’d wanted to get away from the suburbs and he had. Now he was stuck in the sheep drive, one among hundreds, all trying to get their figures in on time and god knows maths was never Louis’ strong point. Neither was following rules to a tee, for that matter.

So maybe that’s why he found himself looking twice, and then three times, then four, at that tattoo parlor he passed every day in his rush to the office.

Every time he'd taken a chance to look at it, he'd laughed to himself. "Albatross Tattoo," Louis said under his breath, smiling as he thought about all those connotations he'd read about in his poetry courses at school. Albatrosses were not a good thing and tattoos were, in his opinion, generally not a good idea, but something about throwing the two notions together into a single name tickled Louis. He wasn't sure whether the parlor was goading him into going there and not regretting getting a tattoo or making fun of people who went and did.

 _Or_ , Louis thought, _the owner could've just thought it was a nice name,_ which seemed perfectly likely anyway.

In any case, Louis shoved those thoughts aside and pushed the door open, wincing at himself and the direction his life was taking. He was well-rounded and modern and he knew that tattoos weren’t shameful or anything. In fact, Louis thought that a lot of times they could tell interesting stories or show something different about a person. For himself, though, they never seemed to fit. Some were grungy and some were pretty, but Louis wasn’t sure what he was, and he wasn’t at a point in his life where he genuinely thought he could make a decision he could live with for the rest of his life, but then, here he was, in Albatross Tattoo on the edge of London, hearing the jingle of the door as a final tell that he was legitimately there and that he’d have to do _something_ about it, or else be marked by himself as a coward for the rest of his life.

Louis thought over every single trite image he’d seen in his life. Tattoos of anchors with “I refuse to sink” written over them, family crests, trees, infinity symbols. He squinched up his face and peered around the parlor, looking at the examples for ideas. Lots of skulls, lots of banners, lots of flowers.

Everything was kind of swirling and his thoughts were drowned out a little by the persistent buzzing beyond the gate. That’s when Louis looked up and locked eyes with a boy wiping a countertop clean. Heavily tattooed up and down his arms with a silver rod piercing on his left eyebrow, this lad, evidently one of the artists at Albatross, fit his environment perfectly. There were three other tattoo artists in the store. One was working on a huge back piece, another was finishing up some girl’s wrist tattoo, and the other worker was cleaning a chair off and dispensing of a needle with a red tip. Louis swallowed and averted his eyes.

Apparently, Louis’ momentary break from making eye-contact with worker #4 didn’t do him any favors. No, the guy was still looking at Louis with glowing brown eyes, visible even from the 20 feet or more that separated them, and he’d stopped cleaning the counter for an indeterminate period of time and that’s when Louis began to feel (impossibly) even more out of place. He tried a smile at the other guy, prompting the bloke to walk over and lean against the gate, the intensity of his features even more visible up close.

Smirking, the tattoo artist looked Louis up and down and, eyebrows lifting, asked, “Alright, what’re you here for? D’ya need directions?”

Louis shrunk into himself a little bit and then blinked, gathered himself up, and forced a response that sounded more confident than he felt: “No. I’m here to get a tattoo. This is a tattoo shop after all, isn’t it? Maybe I do need directions if I’m not _allowed_ to be here or something.” He added a bit of a bite to the reply and hoped it’d set them on level footing somewhat. Two could play the judgment game and what this guy didn’t know was that Louis was Doncaster’s reigning champ.

Appraising Louis again, the tattoo artist nodded his head a fraction and, in a noticeably heavy accent and no inflection, said, “What of?”

Louis made a snap decision and pulled a napkin out of his jeans. “This,” he said assuredly. “I want it on my right forearm.”

The worker (whose name was apparently Zayn, or so his name tag said) continued to smirk as Louis pulled out the napkin and, unfolding it, snorted. Louis twitched, taking it back, and his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, mate,” Zayn said, without a hint of apology in his voice. “That’s rubbish.”

Louis was a bit cowed admittedly, but he still had fight in him and so he demanded, “What happened to ‘the customer’s always right’?”

Zayn laughed and his whole face lit up and Louis tried not to notice that. Gesturing all around them, Zayn exclaimed, “You realize this is a tattoo parlor, yeah?”

“So you’re used to this sort of stuff,” Louis prodded. “Shouldn’t be anything new to you if I end up with a tattoo I don’t like in five years.”

“S’pose not,” Zayn laughed. “But, really, a stick figure skateboarder?”

Louis crossed his arms and pushed out his hip. “Yes, and?”

“If you’re sure,” Zayn replied, like he wasn’t. “Come on back. Should take about 30 minutes.”

“30 minutes?” Louis barked out a laugh. “How on earth will this take 30 minutes?”

“First tattoo, eh, mate?” Louis nodded. “If you want this thing to be quality and last, it’s gonna take a few rounds to get it the right shape and the right thickness and the right depth and all that. Usually’d run about 40 pounds with a tip, but I’ll give you a deal since you’re new at the illustrious Albatross.” Zayn nodded at his surroundings, and continued, “35 even. If you’re extra happy with your tattoo, you can tip me, but I won’t demand it.”

“Can you actually demand a tip? Doesn’t that go against the very principle of a tip?” Louis questioned.

“Mate, I can do whatever I want,” Zayn said smugly, leaning on the counter. “‘S my shop.”

Louis’ brow furrowed and he let out a little incredulous laugh. “Your shop? You own this shop? How old are you, anyway?”

Straightening with a bit of pride, Zayn replied, “21. Turn 22 next January.”

Louis felt his heart sink a little bit. This lad was 21 years old and already owned a business while Louis played tic-tac-toe against himself at work on a regular basis.

“Yeah, well,” he managed to get out. “Can you do the tattoo or can’t you?”

“Already said I could, innit?” Zayn laughed. “Calm down. Jesus. Corporate types.”

“If corporate means not doing anything with my life behind a desk, then yeah,” Louis muttered, bitterly.

Zayn rolled his eyes. “Come on, then. To the back.”

Suddenly he found himself following this person beyond the gated-off area, to a chair covered in paper that reminded Louis of a doctor’s office.

He looked at all the spray bottles and the organization of everything, taking in exactly where he was, and shifted on the chair a little, hearing the familiar crackle. “Is this really necessary?” Louis asked, pointing to the paper.

Zayn smiled and said, “‘S better than getting infected, don’t you think?” and Louis began to question his sudden decision for just about the millionth time in the 10 minutes he’d spent in the shop.

“Yeah, sure,” Louis said distractedly as Zayn leaned over him to grab his right forearm. His touch was warm and Louis leaned into it slightly.

Zayn squinted at Louis’s arm and said, “So, where about do you want this?”

Louis twisted his mouth and thought for a minute and then shrugged, replying, “Somewhere towards the top?” noncommittally.

Laughing again, Zayn put out his hand and looked at Louis expectedly.

“Right,” Louis acknowledged, and started reaching for his wallet.

Zayn stopped him with a firm hold around his arm and said, “No, mate, that’s after. Where’s that napkin of yours?”

Louis re-found it in his pocket and handed it back over, hoping his blush wasn’t as noticeable as it felt. “What if I decided to run? Like, after you did the tattoo?” he asked.

Zayn snorted. “I’m faster than you and have access to needles. You seem like a smart bloke. Do the math.”

“I do math all day,” Louis retorted, smiling.

“Then you’ll know it’s a bad idea,” Zayn said. “I’m going to make a copy of your drawing—cleaner—so we can figure out where to put this bad boy.”

While Zayn set about doing that, Louis took the time to concentrate on the artwork peppering his arms. A comic-like “ZAP!” was the focal point of his right forearm, and it was surrounded by several smaller tattoos—a big, block 6 (or a 9, Louis supposed), a small outline of a bird on his hand, a bandana-patterned stripe right below his elbow, and a girl with wavy hair wearing a beanie and pulling at her crop-top on his bicep. Louis wondered absentmindedly about that one, if she was real or not.

Those thoughts were cut off as Zayn moved back over to Louis with a thin sheet of paper that had a much nicer version of Louis’ napkin drawing on it. Louis laughed lightly and asked what it was.

“It’s like a temporary,” Zayn explained. “I can place it wherever and if you don’t like it, we jus’ wipe it off and move it, and then when we find a good spot, I needle it on.”

Louis squirmed a little and nodded, saying, “Alright, yeah. How about there?” He pointed at a place that was fairly visible on his forearm.

Zayn met his eyes and, for the briefest moment, looked really caring, and then he smiled that self-satisfied smile again and asked, “You sure you want to give up any hope of short sleeves so badly for this stick-n-poke?”

Louis wasn’t sure what half of that meant, but he got the gist of what Zayn was getting at, and shrugged, replying, “I don’t really see why it matters. I’m really not seen by anyone, like, ever. Might as well get it, you know? I guess I’ll have to cover it, though, yeah.”

Zayn nodded sagely and added, “Well, if you want my advice, up a little will look much better than where we’ve put it. Mind if I move it?”

Louis shook his head and saw the drawing wiped off as easily as it’d been placed there and wished in vain that all tattoos were that easy to change up. Zayn re-placed the drawing and Louis looked at the wall mirror and he had to admit, it looked a lot better the few centimeters Zayn had moved it. “Yeah, there,” Louis said. “‘S much better, don’t ya think, Zayn?”

Zayn’s eyebrows lifted for a moment and he blinked and bit the insides of his cheeks and responded, “Yeah, corporate. Much bettter.”

“‘S Louis,” Louis mumbled. “Like the king, or I guess kings, except hopefully not like the kings.”

“Alright, Louis,” Zayn said, smirking. “I need you to express your consent for this to happen and I need to see ID to make sure you’re of age.”

“I’m of age!” Louis exclaimed, half offended. “I’m older than you!”

Zayn laughed wholeheartedly, tumbling over himself a little. “Doesn’t matter. We go by code here,” Zayn said, between laughter.

Louis dug out his wallet (this time for his ID) and muttered, “Who’s corporate now?”

“‘S not corporate to not want to get arrested,” Zayn said, smiling down at Louis and pulling out his tattoo gun and putting in a new needle. “All black, right? No fillings?”

“Just the lines,” Louis answered. “All black.”

“Fantastic,” Zayn said, and it seemed genuine. “Love doing simple tattoos. Just lines creating the work, you know?”

“I’m sure my stick figure would agree,” Louis retorted. He looked at Zayn and took in his mottled hair, clearly styled, and his entire look, much more city than Louis’. Then, before he knew it, he was voicing one of his biggest concerns: “Is this going to hurt?”

Zayn did a little half-smile and he looked Louis up and down and said, “You’re not backing out on me now, are you, Louis?” Seeing Louis’ very real fear, Zayn softened and continued, “No. Won’t hurt, really. It’s different for everyone, but most people say it feels like a shot and then a kinda painful numbness, if that makes sense. Doesn’t hurt anything for some people, and this is a place that’s not very fleshy, so I’d say you’d be fine, but you better listen to me on how to take care of it. I don’t want you dying and giving me a bad reputation, alright?”

Louis nodded and said, mostly to himself, “Some people don’t feel it at all, but maybe some people feel it double.” Then, to Zayn, “Let’s do it before I think myself out of it, if that’s alright.”

“You’ll be fine,” Zayn replied calmly, before adding, “Sorry you won’t be able to hold my hand if you need someone. I’ll be busy, well, doing the thing.”

Louis colored brightly, he was sure of it, and he stuttered and stumbled over his words as he said, “I won’t need that. I’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” Zayn said. “You will.”

Tightening his mouth and nodding stiffly, Louis turned his head away, saying, “Alright. 30 minutes. Okay.”

Zayn took his hand for a brief second and stroked his pulse point gently, and Louis froze. Then he heard the buzz and there was the release of his hand from Zayn’s and then there was the needle pressing firmly against his arm and Zayn brushing off the excess ink, ensuring him that it was normal for tattoos to bleed a little bit the first few days—ink, mostly.

Louis actually managed to fall into a bit of a reverie as Zayn hummed some song and the needle buzzed and then Zayn let go and came back in a matter of seconds to clean Louis up, put on some special ointment that he _insisted_ Louis buy a full bottle of, giving him the rest of the little bottle he’d used, and then Zayn wrapped Louis’ arm in seran wrap, telling him to take that off in about an hour to let the tattoo breathe and to not be freaked out if there was a little black all over his arm. Washing it off gently would solve that.

Louis pulled out 40 pounds and looked at Zayn meaningfully, thanking him sincerely. He couldn’t control a great many things in his life, but he could control this, and, even if it was just a napkin tattoo, it was _something_ and made him feel a little bit less pathetic about how he specifically wore black jeans instead of slacks and didn’t iron his button-ups so he wouldn’t look like a clone. Now he had an original artwork—his own, but whatever—on his arm with a lifetime guarantee from the Zayn Malik that he could get touchups whenever he wanted.

Still, it was a little anticlimactic when Louis went home to his small loft and finished the day’s work, thinking about a stubbled, fit, tattoo-covered beautiful artist in the shop he owned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended reading for this chapter: ["dissolve me"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ab0Cw38AbWo) by alt-j and ["ahead of the curve"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgLI2OkECmc) by monsters of folk.

It was a Tuesday night and Louis thought it should be a criminal offense to be working forced overtime on what he still had ingrained in him as a school night. It was a Tuesday night, for god’s sake, and he had his commute (a relatively quick walk and an equally quick drive) home from the outskirts of London to make and it was nearing ten o’clock. Louis really thought that was a good indication of the way his life had been going. He was going to have to wake up at five in the morning to get ready to make his commute to work and get checked in by seven and he was going home on a Tuesday night at ten o’clock.

Some part of his brain blamed him for a) messing about for the past week or so, b) taking forever to check and double-check his figures for the day, c) being hung up on a tattoo artist he barely knew, and d) having this bloody job in the first place. So, okay, he blamed himself a good deal and he was mad at himself for falling for a boy he’d met once and he was mad at himself for falling hard.

Louis knew from experience that unrequited love was no fun and that being bisexual didn’t mean “getting the best of both worlds” as the few people he’d come out to had insisted. For Louis, it mostly meant confusion, and there had been too many boys he’d daydreamed about who simply weren’t at all playing for Louis’ team. They weren’t gay or bisexual or pansexual or homoromantic or even heterosexual with exceptions. They just weren’t into boys under any circumstance, and Louis wasn’t gonna change that, despite his flirting and flouncing.

He’d learned that liking boys meant misreading competition as flirtation and that, even when he found a suitable partner, they sometimes weren’t the most open-minded about Louis’ orientation and thought that it made him more promiscuous. Their insinuations that he was somehow bad for being who he was turned him off those people in any case. So, yeah, he was a little upset that he had a burgeoning crush on Zayn the Tattoo Artist of Albatross Tattoo and that he didn’t even know anything about him. At least, not really.

Louis was bundling himself up in his off-brand Burberry coat as he made his way out of the city to the carpark. The air was brisk and he was in a rush to get home and shower off the staleness of the day and, more than anything, get out of the fucking cold and into his 13-year-old car. Regardless, Louis paced down the narrow streets that let him know definitively that he was not, in fact, living any semblance of a glamorous London life. He wasn’t even sure that was what he wanted, but he knew that what he had wasn’t doing it for him, and the consistency of his feet hitting the pavement was all he could get himself to focus on for more than five seconds when he saw him. Zayn, closing up shop.

Pulling down the bars and everything. Louis thought that that sort of practice had ended in the 90s, but what did he know? In any case, Louis knew he had about ten seconds to straighten himself out and make his eyes and nose less watery and the bags under his eyes less visible before Zayn would see him and probably take pity on him for not being anything resembling a modelesque, tattooed eighth wonder of the world. Louis knew he was good-looking, but when he thought about Zayn, he got a little bit dizzy and wondered how he’d gone so many years without seeing someone that enthrallingly handsome who was actually, miraculously real. He wondered also how many years he’d have to go with only the memory of Zayn in his head.

And his ten seconds were up.

Louis was caught pushing his hair into order when Zayn lifted his head and smiled at him with that I've-known-you-my-whole-life smile that made his whole face change shape and become impossibly more radiant. Louis inhaled sharply, blaming it on the cold but fully aware of the real reason, and beamed back at Zayn.

"Wha's happening, corporate?" Zayn exclaimed.

Louis shook his head and bit down a smile. "So I’m corporate, then? Which of us is the one that owns a business again?" he asked, fighting fire with fire.

"Yeah, but that just means I'm me own boss," Zayn said, his full weight against the bars in front of his shop. "Can do whatever I want. Only I can stop me."

"You know," Louis replied, coyly, "my uncle Ben once said that with great power comes great responsibility."

"Did he now?" Zayn asked, ducking his head.

"Sure did," Louis said. "It was just before he died too. Tragic."

“That really is tragic,” Zayn agreed, nodding, before bursting into laughter. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he began. “That part always kills me, but talking about it so nonchalantly is just—well, I don’t know what it is—but it’s late and fuck if this isn’t the highlight of my night.”

Louis’ heart swelled a bit at that and he shuffled his feet a little, bouncing slightly on his heels. “Mine, too,” he said, quietly.

“So,” Zayn said, looking beyond Louis and back, “what are you doing out so late on a Tuesday night? These parts are dangerous, corporate. There are tattooed assassins everywhere.”

“Ones who wear earrings and buy electric razors with 17 different settings just so they can maintain the perfect amount of facial hair?” Louis replied, lifting his eyebrows.

“Aw, I’m flattered,” Zayn answered, smirking hard enough Louis could feel his smugness at catching Louis in the middle of a played-off compliment. “D’ya really think it’s the perfect amount?” Zayn teased, rubbing his chin lightly.

“Piss off,” Louis muttered, laughing at himself and Zayn in equal parts.

“Maybe I should switch to setting 13,” Zayn continued.

“Have you quite finished?” Louis asked, feigning exasperation. “I have to get home. The people need me.”

“I’m sure,” Zayn said, smile only growing wider. “And where is home, exactly?”

Louis gave Zayn his best affronted look and replied wide-eyed, “Well, I’m certainly not telling the likes of you. A minute ago, you implied you were not only an assassin, but that you were going to kill me. _And_ ,” Louis added, “you mocked the death of my dear old uncle Ben.”

Zayn tossed his head back and laughed with big gasps of air punctuating his body’s movements. His laughter slowed and he regained his composure some and threw his hands in the air. “Alright, alright. Don’t tell me where you live. I’m wanted by the state.”

“With good reason, I’m sure.”

“Oh, the best reasons.”

Louis’ lip quirked but he said nothing and then, as he was about to pass Zayn by, felt Zayn stop him by lightly pushing his shoulder. Louis steadied himself and looked Zayn in the eyes.

“Yeah?” Louis asked.

“We should get drinks,” Zayn said.

“It’s a Tuesday night,” Louis replied, matter-of-factly, without thinking about anything except the fact that _it was a Tuesday night_ and he had another long day ahead of him tomorrow.

“So not tonight.” Zayn rolled his eyes and smiled, then looked more intently at Louis. “But sometime, yeah?”

Louis let himself smile, let a tiny bit of hope at the prospect of drinks enter his heart. “Yeah, alright. Sometime.”

“Ace,” Zayn said, nodding and stepping back. They were quiet for a moment or two until Zayn chuckled a little to himself and turned to the lock and chain holding two fractured parts of the protective bars together. “Alright, mate,” he said, fishing a small key out of his front pocket. “Take care.”

Louis smiled. “Sure.”

“Alright,” Zayn said again, smiling widely, and turning away.

Louis took that as his cue to leave and turned on his heel, walking away not quite as quickly as he had before he ran into Zayn, possibly due to the warmth that had started in his heart and spread to the rest of his body. Sure enough, when Louis got about 15 feet away, he looked over his shoulder and caught Zayn still watching him with a glint of mischief in his eyes. Giving a tiny wave, Louis resisted squeaking and clicking his heels and headed to his car.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening for this chapter: ["i bet you look good on the dance floor"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pK7egZaT3hs) by arctic monkeys and ["come on eileen"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oc-P8oDuS0Q) by dexy's midnight runners.

Downing his fifth fruity drink of the evening (Louis thought this one had been called a Tahitian Sunrise, but at this point everything was blending together into one big tropical landscape to be honest), Louis smiled and swayed on his own as Zayn came back with a sixth drink for him to forget. Louis didn’t mind that “drinks” meant “going to a club”. He’d done his share of partying in uni and had a love of dancing from his years in theatre and a newfound love of being here with Zayn, who only got more attractive with the dimmed, flashing lights and haziness that came with all of Louis’ strange and wonderful drinks (which were, admittedly, much preferred to the cheap ale he’d been limited to back in his schooling days).

Louis closed his eyes and lifted his glass in the air and shouted along to the thumping club music, dancing a good bit. When he opened his eyes, Zayn was very, very close to him and damn if his lips didn’t look enticing. Louis smiled at them and lifted his eyes to meet Zayn’s and sleepily smiled at him, too. Everything was a little bit funnier, and Louis giggled at Zayn, in this club, wearing a shirt with the statement “cool kids don’t dance” on it. Suddenly, Louis found himself wanting to test that theory. He bit his lip and thanked Zayn for the newest drink, appropriately named a Pink Lady. (Louis’d managed to weasel out of Zayn that he’d been a T-Bird in his school’s production of _Grease_ and had just barely stopped himself from responding that that was just too perfect considering his own role as Danny Zuko.)

“I like your shirt,” he told him, raising his voice over the house music.

“But it’d look better on your floor, right?” Zayn said, lip quirked.

Louis felt his cheeks color and stammered, “That’s—no, that’s not what I meant, it’s just, it’s funny because you’re in a dance club—”

Zayn rolled his eyes and bumped his shoulder against Louis’. “I know, you big donut.”

Louis scoffed, mildly offended at being compared to a pastry, and he must have had more alcohol in him than the tasty drinks let on, because he found himself saying, “Who’s the girl? The tattoo, the girl wearing the beanie?”

Zayn looked at his arm and the corners of his mouth turned down just slightly—Louis wasn't wasted enough to miss that—and Zayn said, flatly, "Yeah, that's a good friend of mine. Designed it, you know?"

Louis squinted slightly as he reexamined it. "So, she's real? I don't go 'round getting my good friends tattooed on me."

"Last I checked, you only had the one tattoo and it was a napkin drawing," Zayn retorted.

“I just, I don’t really see the purpose of getting just a friend permanently drawn onto your skin unless they, like, mean something to you, you know?” He wasn’t sure why he was pushing this, but something about it put him on edge. He wasn’t _jealous_ —he had no reason to be, he’d only just met Zayn. Still, he was curious in a potentially possessive way and, even though he hated it, he had to know who exactly this girl _was_ to Zayn.

“Not everything means something,” Zayn said, passively. “Sometimes you just like the look of it.”

“I guess,” Louis replied, slowly. “I just—I don’t know. Are you with her?” He tried to keep his tone conversational, but worried his face betrayed his too-intense interest in the answer.

Zayn’s face fell and he sighed deeply. “No, mate. I’m not. Not anymore.”

_Anymore_. Louis wasn’t in the business of speculating sexuality, but maybe there was more promise to this drinks-and-dancing thing than he’d dared to hope. After all, it was Zayn who’d run after him in the street on the Thursday after they’d talked on that fateful Tuesday night to exchange numbers, because he was dead serious about the going-out-for-drinks thing and said he’d hold Louis hostage and give him tattoos he’d regret if Louis didn’t make good on his half of the bargain—coming with him.

Louis hummed his understanding and pried a little bit more, “Do you regret it? The tattoo I mean?”

“No,” Zayn told him. “She’s a part of me, and we’re still mates.”

Louis decided to lighten the mood and said, “So, what about you and the tiger? Any love connection there?”

Zayn bit his lip, smiling, and replied, “Nah, unrequited, on my side.”

“Foolish tiger,” Louis said, smirking. “She missed out.”

“He sure did,” Zayn responded, then continued, “Foolish Tiger is actually the name of my band.”

“No way!” Louis burst out, even louder because of the pumping bass that was making their conversations difficult to begin with. “That shit’s mine and you know it!”

“Alright, alright, I concede!” Zayn exclaimed, bowing his head slightly in submission. “If you’re ever looking for a drummer, though, I’m pretty sick.”

Louis’ brain took a while to catch up with their exchanges, but finally realized he’d gotten stuck on the tiger’s “he”. It probably meant nothing—he could’ve easily even misheard it—but maybe it was Zayn’s way of telling Louis that this was exactly what Louis was hoping it was. Still, aside from top hat-wearing skulls, Zayn’s only tattoo depicting a person that Louis could see was of his mysterious ex- _something_ , close friend grunge goddess. Louis scrunched up his nose and tried to process everything in spite of his heavy brain.

Zayn poked him in the side, smiled, and said, “You alright, Tomlinson?”

Louis started to nod and finish his drink when he heard a familiar beat start up through the speakers. The DJ was saying something Louis couldn’t quite catch about throwing back to the golden age of music: the 80s. So, it was absolutely, definitely, 100% “Come On Eileen” playing loudly into the sticky air and, for some reason Louis couldn’t fathom, this coincided with Zayn turning a tap of his foot into a full-on dance, looking freer than he’d ever seemed in the few times Louis’d met him.

“Zayn Malik, do you know this song? Do you like this song?” Louis asked gleefully, his face crinkling up into a smile.

“Everyone likes this song,” he insisted, twirling around.

Louis set down his drink and watched Zayn and said, “What happened to ‘cool kids don’t dance’?”

“They don’t,” Zayn shouted back, still swaying and snapping his fingers, “unless it’s to ‘Come On Eileen’.”

Looking at Zayn through his off-kilter vision of the world—one laced with alcohol and dancing Zayns—Louis felt his heart well up and he moved towards Zayn, pulled by some force he couldn’t control. “Come on,” Louis shout-whispered into the shell of Zayn’s ear. “Let’s dance.”

Zayn beamed at Louis and pulled their bodies tighter together, and it was gravity-shifting. Louis pressed against Zayn as they danced and pursed his lips, holding eye contact with him. Wrapping one of his hands around Zayn’s waist and resting the other on the back of his neck, Louis felt the beat pulse through both of them. He felt like he was drawing nearer and nearer to Zayn and his stupid, wonderful mouth, and he didn’t know how long he could hold out.

He felt his head tilt as he leaned closer to the boy, and whether it was of his own volition or not, he let it happen. Zayn was smiling but his eyes held a question, and Louis answered it by pressing their mouths together insistently. If Zayn was surprised he didn’t show it, responding in kind. Louis wasn’t sure which one of them it was, but the kiss tasted like a slew of fruits and liquors and Louis absolutely loved it. Though Louis was no blushing virgin, but the things Zayn was doing with his tongue should have been criminal.

Louis’ hands moved to Zayn’s hair—it was soft, softer than Louis would have ever imagined with all the product it looked like it held—and slated their lips together, moving out of time with the music, but not paying much attention, the bassline a dull thud echoing in his ears, keeping time with the vibrations running through his veins.

Zayn pulled away, smiling softly and taking Louis’ waist to continue dancing with him, only centimeters separating them, and Louis could smell Zayn and a rugged cleanliness and he panted into Zayn’s ear, “Let’s go.”

Louis wanted to be in the cold air and he wanted to be in a quieter space and he wanted Zayn so fucking much he couldn’t handle it. Zayn took Louis’ hand and pulled him towards the doors, meeting the chill of the air head-on and pulling his jacket’s collar up a little bit as he blew out a puff of air (visible) and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it as they walked. “Flat’s this way,” Zayn said, and Louis drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cut of Zayn’s smoke and the crisp air in equal measure.

Curiosity (combined with good old-fashioned lust) pushed Louis to grab Zayn and pull him in for another kiss. He’d never kissed a smoker before and, when their mouths met, Zayn exhaled in surprise, causing Louis to pull away in a coughing fit.

“Christ,” he managed to get out, his eyes watering as he bent over, coughing violently to expel the smoke from his lungs. He turned to glare at Zayn, who was shaking with laughter. “Fine. Go ahead. Laugh. I guess I’ll never be hardcore.”

“Mate,” he said, “you were never even close.”

“West side?” Louis said, looking hopefully up at Zayn from his bent-over position.

“No,” Zayn said, completely seriously. “Stop that.”

Louis was feeling like a complete idiot when Zayn said, “Hey, come on. Flat’s not far now.”

He stood up wordlessly and fell into time with Zayn’s steps down the sidewalk. “So, uh, Zayn Malik,” he started. “Where’re you from?”

Snorting, Zayn shot him a sideways look. “You’re trying to make chit-chat as we go back to mine?”

Louis shrugged. “Not like this is gonna be the last time we see each other, right? Figured I might get to know you beyond your tats and shop.”

Zayn nodded, smiling a little. “Bradford. Moved here when I turned 18, started at the tattoo shop right away, took over last year when the old owner left.”

“Quite the entrepreneurial spirit,” Louis mused. “Or maybe not,” he added, “seeing as you didn’t start the shop, I suppose.”

“I didn’t invent tattoos, either, you may be surprised to hear,” Zayn said, chuckling. He pointed a little ways down the avenue. “That building with the fucked up vespa in front is mine. The fucked up vespa is mine, too.”

“Oh, but I’m sure it’s got a lovely personality!” Louis replied, hysterically amused at himself, which (he told himself) was the alcohol’s fault and not some sort of character flaw.

Zayn looked over at Louis and took a drag of his cigarette. “It’s got character,” he said, amusement shaping his voice and face and making his whole self more animated.

Louis wrapped an arm around Zayn’s shoulder and felt the heat Zayn was exuding and leaned his head against Zayn’s neck. He didn’t know exactly what he was getting himself into, but it was quaint how nicely his body fit with Zayn’s. There was no awkwardness and Zayn was muscular in a lean way, which Louis liked quite a bit. He’d had a few girlfriends and boyfriends in his time, and they were all slenderer than he was (He was secretly very self-conscious about his stomach, but never let that get in the way of his physical pursuits).

They turned into the building and walked past an upside-down poster of The Creation of Adam in the lobby to a rickety elevator with an honest-to-god grill in front of the doors. The building was dimly lit and in other circumstances Louis would have probably been afraid to enter it, but Zayn had a hand on his elbow as they walked, and he figured he was going to be okay. They entered the elevator and Zayn pushed a the button for the third floor on the wall and leaned on it as the doors closed.

“You have to hold it down the whole way you go up,” he explained when Louis cocked his head. “Otherwise it takes you all the way to the fifth floor at the top. It’s a right mess.”

“Yeah, and God forbid you have to walk down two floors,” Louis deadpanned.

“Exactly,” Zayn nodded.

Their rapport was so easy and natural, and Louis actually really enjoyed just talking to Zayn. He was fit as hell, there was no denying it, but he was also smart and artistic and Louis definitely, definitely had a crush. One that he was pretty certain he’d get to pursue as far as things could go, at least physically. He was going up to Zayn’s flat, after all, and Louis figured that could only really mean one thing.

The elevator rattled slowly as it carried them upwards, and Louis took the few steps to close the space between him and Zayn. They were only a few inches apart, and Louis just took Zayn in—the eyebrow piercing, glinting in the dull light, the pursed lips, the beautiful deep brown of his eyes. He took his head and nestled it in the crook of Zayn’s neck, feeling him shake as he laughed a little. “Your hair’s tickling me,” he said softly, making Louis rub it even harder.

“You’re ticklish,” Louis said, his voice muffled. “That’s adorable. You’re adorable, Zayn Malik.”

“You’re drunk,” said Zayn fondly.

“Yes, I am,” Louis confirmed. “Any further questions?”

Zayn laughed and pushed Louis with a firm hand placed on Louis’ lower back as they entered his flat. “Come on, come on,” Zayn mumbled. “Room’s this way.” He directed Louis to a plain white door that honestly seemed out of place with all of the avant-garde shit Zayn had scattered around the place and the graffiti spread across every wall. Somehow, it seemed like the door should’ve been more special or something, so Louis planted a kiss on it because he thought that might make the door _feel_ special. He didn’t think whether he meant it’d feel special to him, or that the door itself would feel like it was special. Louis just thought it was the right thing to do and Zayn’s uproarious laughter didn’t so much tell him his instincts had been wrong, just that he was as shocked as Louis at the turn of events.

“Now I feel a bit like a third wheel,” Zayn said, laughing as he pushed the door open to reveal a room mostly taken up by a huge bed with fairy lights all around its frame. Louis’ eyes widened and he turned quick—maybe too quick, because he got extraordinarily dizzy—and pushed Zayn’s body against the door frame, lifting their arms above their heads and pressing against him to kiss him with integrity. After a little while, Zayn tipped his head back, examined Louis, and guided him towards the bed. Louis smiled broadly and pushed at Zayn’s shirt until his stomach was exposed some.

Zayn looked at Louis fondly and leaned in, kissing Louis on the forehead instead of the mouth, and said, “G’night, Lou.”

Louis felt his face fall a full meter and, not fully understanding, crawled into the bed, huddling himself up in the comforter. “Night, Zayn,” he replied, trying not to pout.

Zayn crossed the room and quietly closed the door behind him and Louis went over the night’s events in his head. Things were a little clouded, but Louis was positive the affection wasn’t one-sided. At least, he thought he was positive. The more he tried to think, the more he realized that he’d initiated just about everything, and he felt embarrassed and confused. Usually, all of the events that had transpired that night would mean Zayn in bed _with_ him, but Louis thought maybe Zayn was just friendly or nice or maybe he just liked kissing or _something_ and that he didn’t actually like Louis or sex or sex with Louis.

Wrapping himself up in every blanket he could find and resting his head on probably seven pillows at any given time, Louis took out his phone and plugged in the spare pair of headphones he had at all times and listened to The Fray to feel better and The Killers and Plain White Tees to feel worse and finally he ended up listening to “Come On Eileen” on repeat as he drifted off to sleep, trying not to think about all the potential ways he could’ve messed this up and how he should’ve been less… intimate, or something. He wasn’t going to cry. He was going to take his pride and go to sleep and hope to God he’d wake up early enough in the morning to leave with his dignity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening for this chapter: ["shiver, shiver"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zSc767VGPg) by walk the moon and ["light a roman candle with me"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tv7mRtd1b6w) by fun.

It had been eight days since Louis had seen Zayn. He had woken up at five AM after the night of dancing and grabbed the first jumper he found in the room's closet. He’d snuck out of the apartment before he had time to confront (or be confronted) about just what was going on between the two of them. Walking through the city that was just barely lit by the rising sun and debating whether or not to text Zayn an excuse, Louis’d realized that he had no idea how to get back to his own flat from Zayn's.

But, instead of calling and asking for a ride like any normal person would, Louis just wandered around for a bit to try and see if he could pick out any familiar landmarks or street names. Eventually, he managed to orient himself some. It was halfway to his carpark that it dawned on Louis that he’d essentially stolen from Zayn when he tiptoed out the door wearing Zayn’s jumper to keep warm. Louis mentally cursed himself and thought he probably deserved this thief’s fate. Not only was he stuck returning home to an empty bed in his tiny and not one bit preheated apartment, he figured he couldn’t in good conscious keep Zayn’s jumper without his expressed permission and, either way, the result was the same: Louis had to talk to Zayn.

As much as Louis’d enjoyed talking to Zayn and dancing with Zayn and _kissing Zayn_ (his brain added unhelpfully), he wasn’t sure the whole sneaking-out-before-sunrise thing would fly too well. Louis spent the next eight days turning every option over in his head to figure out precisely how to go about this. Texts would make it too awkward and stilted, and calling was a fate worse than death with no access to seeing the emotions flicker across Zayn’s face and no way to gauge how well he was handling things. There was no good solution, essentially. There were just less bad ones.

Louis spent his eight days of thinking and overthinking the situation taking a different route to and from work—one that ensured there was no plausible way of running into Zayn if things went as planned. Still, Louis imagined Zayn on every corner and wondered whether he hated Louis, whether he was just as confused, or worse—whether Louis wasn’t even important enough to him for any thought to be spared on what had transpired. Louis felt a little sick spending his days in a blur thinking about how badly he’d fucked things up and his nights stuck in a loop dream of him moving to kiss Zayn and being thrust away, thrust back to Doncaster, thrust into his cubicle. Louis woke up anxious and too hot and too antsy and took more pills to fall asleep in that week of avoiding Zayn than he’d ever needed in his life.

Finally, Louis thought of something remotely clever that might get him back in Zayn’s good graces, and that’s what led to Louis standing in front of Albatross Tattoo half an hour after he’d gotten off work, hesitating to pull on the door handle. He could see Zayn in his stall, eyebrows furrowed and biting his lip in concentration, as he worked on some bloke with big eyebrows and short, sculpted hair. Louis rubbed his face and tried to work his courage up, but the longer he waited, the worse he felt, and the jumper in his arms weighed heavy on his conscious but it smelled exactly like Zayn and he couldn’t help but lift it to his nose, knowing full-well that this might be the last time he ever saw either of them again.

Taking a shaky breath, Louis opened the door and sat on the leather couch in front of the gate and waited, lightly tracing his tattoo (now more or less healed) with his fingertips. He wasn’t sure how long he was sitting there—he didn’t think Zayn had noticed him come in, and another employee, a short girl with an angular haircut and the same sort of eyebrow piercing Zayn had, was manning the front desk.

“C’n I help ya?” she asked with a thick Irish accent.

He looked up from his seat and stuttered, “Oh, er, I’m just—I’ve got something of Zayn’s, and I—I just wanted to give it back.” He lifted up the jumper so she could see, and her eyes widened.

“You’re Louis, ain’t ya?” she asked, a smile playing at her mouth before it flattened into a line. “You fucked up big time, mate.”

“You noticed, yeah?” he spat without thinking.

“Zayn won’t shut up about ya,” she told him with a lowered voice, resting her chin on her arm. “He never talks, but one bloke leaves him before he wakes up when they didn’t even _fuck_ , let alone sleep in the same room, and you can’t get him to shut his gob.”

Louis laughed incredulously. “Is this a tattoo shop or group therapy? Shit. How much did he tell you?”

“Just that you snogged and your sorry arse was too drunk to make it back to yours alive so he let you crash.” She shrugged. “He was really torn up when he woke up and you were gone, you know. _And_ you stole his fuckin’ jumper.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad!” Louis exclaimed, raising his arms up in protest.

“Well, he’ll be out in a bit,” she said, nodding back to where he was tattooing the man. “You two can hash it out then.”

Something struck Louis—he wasn’t sure what—but he found himself saying, “Actually, is he free after this one? Can I schedule an appointment?”

She cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as she clicked a couple of times on the desk computer. “Tuesdays aren’t the busiest. Looks like he’s free for the rest of the night. Want me to schedule you for… 7:30?”

Louis’ heartbeats sped up and he shook his head “no” but said, “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” He tried to smile in a convincing way, but worried it came out as more of a grimace than anything. The girl’s words were ringing in his ears and he couldn’t make sense of what exactly had gotten to Zayn about his desertion, but he had a vague plan formed in his mind and he just hoped he had the follow-through to not run away at the last minute.

After a few minutes had passed, Louis looked over to see Zayn wrapping up his client’s arm, smiling at the bloke widely. The other guy beamed, eyes squinting, and wrapped Zayn in a huge hug, mouthing something into his ear and then it happened—Zayn tilted his head a little more towards the guy and caught Louis’ eyes and stiffened and then the two of them separated, looking over at Louis with matching dead-in-the-eyes facial expressions. Zayn said something to his friend and patted him on the back, nodding in Louis’ direction, and the two of them moved towards the gate. Louis shivered a little as he watched the two of them stride over and clutched the jumper in his lap until his knuckles were white. Zayn opened the gate separating them and said, “Alright, see you on Friday, Liam, yeah?” to which the newly-christened Liam replied, “Yeah, BYOB and all that,” before looking Louis up and down as he passed on his way out the door.

The air felt stagnant and Louis raised his eyes from where his hands were sat on his lap to look at Zayn.

“So, you’re back for more,” Zayn said, not really as a question and with only enough inflection in his voice to fill a teaspoon, if that.

“S’pose I am,” Louis mustered, while the girl looked past Zayn at him and mouthed “Go on”. Louis shifted his eyes back to Zayn and gently handed Zayn’s jumper over, saying, “Sorry about the other day,” in the same breath as, “I, uh, have an idea for a tattoo, if you’ll have me.”

Zayn took the jumper from Louis and straightened his shoulders, leveling a look at Louis that probably depleted his life force to almost nothing before replying flatly, “Well, you are booked, so.” Gesturing towards the back and turning to the gate, Zayn held it open for Louis and glanced at him with a brooding look from his shoulder.

Louis tried to act normally and continued walking to Zayn’s station, breathing as evenly as he could. Leaning against the counter, Louis waited in insistent silence as Zayn cleaned up the chair, his tattoo gun, the counter, the chair, the chair, the chair, and so on, and felt himself slowly but surely losing his nerve.

After what seemed like hours, Zayn covered the chair with that doctor’s office paper again and motioned for Louis to take a seat. “So,” Zayn said, “what is it you want?”

Louis had to think for a second, then. He wanted to say you with a forcefulness that couldn’t be ignored, but instead he blinked twice and pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket, quickly writing “oops!” on it.

Zayn picked up the piece of paper and examined it, but he didn’t smile and he didn’t look at Louis. He just muttered, “Should be about a tenner,” and set about re-drawing Louis’s handwritten half-apology until it looked like a perfected Louis font. He placed it near the skateboarder and raised his eyebrows up at Louis in place of asking for approval. Louis froze and nodded, turning his head and averting his eyes as he heard the buzz of the needle start up.

The tattoo was done in about 15 minutes and cleaned up quickly and Louis pulled out 20 pounds to give Zayn, trying to figure him out. He was clearly upset, but all of that was hidden under layer upon layer of lowered eyelids and sucked in cheekbones and eyebrows set permanently in non-response.

Louis couldn’t take it anymore. Anything was better than this fucking silence. “Alright, so I fucked up,” he blurted. Zayn’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t respond. “I messed up,” Louis repeated. “I’m sorry for leaving in the morning. I’m sorry for trying to fuck you. I’m sorry for kissing you. I’m sorry for leaving in the morning and stealing your jumper and I’m even sorry for coming back here and getting a stupid tattoo to try to break the ice. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

Zayn was quiet for a bit, watching Louis with a careful air. Louis sighed and continued: “Listen, I—you have every right to be pissed at me, I would be too. I’m not really a closed-off type, and sometimes I’m worried that I give more than I get. And I was coming on to you so hard, and I’m so sorry, and I probably turned you off, if you were ever—turned onto me in the first place, whatever that’s supposed to mean. But, like, you’re great, Zayn. You should know that.”

Zayn nodded, looking at the ground before staring at Louis intently and saying, “I’m not, like, looking for anything casual. I’m really serious about this sort of thing in my life. And I know we haven’t, like, discussed ‘intentions’ or anything like that, but the signals that you sent me when you left told me I wasn’t even worth staying in the morning for. So yeah, that really hurt, Louis. Can you see how it would’ve?”

Louis felt like absolute shit. “Fuck. Yeah, absolutely. I’m so sorry, Zayn. That’s—I just assumed, because you—”

“Didn’t take advantage of an idiot drunk off his arse?” Zayn finished, the smallest hint of a smile returning to his voice. “Funny, that.”

“God, Zayn,” Louis groaned, rubbing his face. “I’m such a twat. I’m so sorry. I had no idea the magnitude of my twatiness. I’m not even gonna ask you to forgive me. Fuck.”

"Can I kiss you?" Zayn asked.

Confusion plain on his face, Louis asked, “What? I mean, yeah—"

Louis found himself cut off by Zayn grabbing his face and kissing him with a soft kind of force Louis wasn't used to. They broke apart after a few seconds and Louis cocked his head.

“Louis, mate,” Zayn explained, “you think too much.”

“That’s a new one," Louis said quietly, still in a bit of a daze as he rubbed the back of his head. "Erm. Does this mean we’re good?"

"Course we are," Zayn said as he rolled his eyes. "Like, yeah, I was pretty miffed when you left, but you're here now, and I can tell you're really sorry and were pretty fucking confused, too, and you're just so fuckin' beautiful, if I'm being honest."

Louis hadn't ever been called beautiful before, and something about the simple way Zayn said it stirred him, and he found himself  instilled with the sort of stupid courage he'd always lacked.

"Okay, so like, please," he started, "don't let me pressure you or anything, you're allowed to say no and I'll be cool with that, but, like, do you want to maybe come back to mine? Tonight? For the night?"

Zayn's face slowly split in half with a grin and he nodded, saying, "Absolutely. Fuck yeah."

"Brilliant!" Louis laughed, but Zayn's face suddenly crumpled in confusion and disappointment.

"Wait, though," Zayn said. "It's a Tuesday night."

Smirking, Louis pressed his body against Zayn's slightly. "I know."

A smile broke across Zayn's face and he laced his hands in Louis', grabbing a tube of ointment with him because the perfectionist tattoo artist in him wasn't going to let going back to Louis' place turn his "oops!" into an "oh fuck". Hand in hand, Louis and Zayn headed to the door and, getting there, Zayn nodded at the girl Louis'd talked with, saying, "Here’re the keys. We're closing shop early. Goodnight, everyone."

"Have fuuun!" the girl exclaimed, a smile playing at her lips as she looked at Louis giving the distinct impression that she knew exactly what was going on.

Louis bit his lip a little, fighting a losing battle against a smile pushing at the corners if his lips and he replied, "We will," and pushed the door open.

Shivering a little in the harsh night air, Louis felt Zayn press against his shoulders and suddenly he was engulfed in the very jumper he'd taken.

"Looks better on you anyway," Zayn said. "Suits you better than suits."

Louis looked at him, replied, "But it'd look better on my floor, right?" and winked.

Zayn blushed lightly and ducked his head as he mused, "Only time will tell," to which Louis colored enormously. Yeah, so, definitely the best Tuesday night ever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening for this chapter: ["treacherous"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWLhPT_KawQ) by taylor swift and ["songbird"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTi19MPOvDw) by fleetwood mac.

The room came into focus and light came filtering through the window of Louis’ flat. He was consciously, painfully aware of a lack of warmth next to him. Still thoroughly disheveled from a night of discovering just about every inch of Zayn’s body with his mouth or fingers, Louis scratched his head and picked up one of the shirts littering his floor and pulled it over his head. The space next to him in the bed had been the type of cold that signified someone long gone and Louis wondered if Zayn had felt that same sort of self-hatred Louis was experiencing when he’d walked into his own bedroom and found no trace of Louis at all. Louis briefly wondered if this maybe had been Zayn’s plan all along. _Giving me my just desserts_ , he thought bitterly. _Awesome. Chalk up another ruined potential relationship for Louis Tomlinson._

He sighed and fought back tears that were threatening to escape his eyes and decided to just go about his day and get ready for work.

Louis walked to the bathroom with his shirt and boxers clinging to him and then became aware of another sound beyond the padding of his feet against the floorboards: running water. Reaching the doorframe of the bathroom, Louis poked the door open and there was Zayn, sitting on the countertop, swinging his feet and wearing a wicked grin.

“What the hell,” Louis said.

A huge smile broke across Zayn’s face and he snorted, replying simply: “Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”

“Still in purgatory, am I?” Louis asked, his voice lilting.

Zayn nodded, laughing, and said, “Not for long, though. Got us a nice little shower running. Ought to be hot enough to cleanse ya.”

Louis smiled down and jutted his chin out, incapable of fathoming how his life had come to this, but extremely grateful that it had. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Alright.”

The night before had been phenomenal, to put it lightly. Zayn had to be careful at times to not touch Louis’ brand-new tattoo, but Louis didn’t mind.

“Y’know,” Zayn had murmured, his lips against Louis’ eardrum and his hands entangled in his hair, “we usually don’t encourage sex right after getting tatted.”

“Does that usually come up?” Louis teased.

“Oh, yeah,” Zayn muttered, leaning in to speak against Louis’ lips. “Comes up all the time.”

“Okay, well,” Louis said. “Oops.”

Memories of the night before flitted into Louis’ brain. The two of them in bed after, not quite asleep, and Louis letting his eyes linger on the tattoo of Zayn’s ex for a bit too long, causing Zayn to reach over and take Louis’ hand in his and say softly, “It doesn’t really bother you, does it? That I dated her?”

Louis’ sleepy smile as he shook his head. “Nah. I used to date the stick figure, so I reckon we’re even.”

Zayn blowing a raspberry on Louis’ shoulder in response and that making him laugh, and them leaving it at that as they drifted to sleep.

Louis’d loved getting to see Zayn’s other tattoos beyond the sleeve—the simple heart on his right hipbone, a lipstick print in between and underneath the wings on his chest, a line of Arabic on his left collarbone, something else in Arabic on the right side of his chest, words written lightly on his hipbone, pulling Louis in closer and distracting him from his memorization and making him more than a little intrigued about Zayn’s loose hanging shorts and the prospect of this shower with him.

Louis pulled his own shirt off with ease and pulled Zayn by his shorts’ elastic band towards the shower, causing Zayn to tip into Louis as they leaned against the sliding door. Louis kept his fingers laced in the tie on Zayn’s shorts and bit Zayn’s lip, sucking on it, and kissed him roughly. Zayn pushed into Louis’ hand and Louis tugged his own boxers down, shimmying out of them but not breaking their kiss.

Louis stepped over the barrier into his combination shower-bath and pulled a smirking Zayn towards him with no resistance. Zayn sucked on his bottom lip and turned Louis around and, after a few seconds, joined him under the stream of water, rubbing Louis’ back and kissing his shoulder blades so softly and tenderly that Louis shivered. It was like Zayn had a direct connection to Louis’ pulse and every time he touched Louis, always in that hugely understated way, Louis’ heart skipped a beat. When Zayn squeezed shampoo into his hands and started massaging Louis’ hair and then wrapped a hand around Louis’ dick, pumping with a concentrated pressure, Louis practically jumped. Zayn planted a soft kiss at the juncture between Louis’ neck and his shoulder and Louis tilted his head to catch Zayn’s mouth with his own, lost in an ecstasy he couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Careful,” Zayn whispered. “Can’t get your tattoo too wet—”

“For _Christ’s sakes_ ,” Louis laughed, his shoulders shaking against Zayn. “Leave work at work for once in your life, you maniac.”

“Mmm, alright.” Zayn’s deep murmur vibrated through Louis, and he couldn’t get past how natural their skin felt together.

Louis licked his lips and tilted his head back, washing the shampoo from his hair, and turned around to face Zayn, palms flat on Zayn’s torso, loving the way his skin felt, clean and smooth under the water.

Slotting their lips against each other, Louis closed the miniscule gap between their bodies and felt himself align with Zayn’s body, chest against chest, both of them hard and pressed wetly against the other. Louis smiled against Zayn’s lips and traced a circle around Zayn’s nipple and bit Zayn’s arm lightly, leaving a light mark he just _knew_ would bruise. Zayn moaned and pushed against Louis more, cupping his ass and kissing him ravenously with the tiles to Louis’ back.

“Fuck,” Zayn breathed into Louis’ neck, as Louis started jerking him off. “ _Fuck_ ,” he repeated.

Eyes crinkling, Louis twisted his mouth to keep from smiling too much. Everything was so fucking hot and Zayn’s mouth tasted wonderful. Rubbing his free hand over Zayn’s back and tracing his way up and down Zayn’s spine, Louis suddenly decided he wanted to _taste_ Zayn, and lowered himself, speckling kisses and lovebites as he descended, and replaced his hand with his mouth. Louis felt the tangible effect it had as Zayn’s knees buckled and he grasped at the wall for support.

Massaging Zayn’s balls as he worked him with his mouth, Louis hollowed his cheeks and then swiped a lick down the length of Zayn’s cock, and Zayn groaned animalistically and came in Louis’ mouth, slumping further against the wall.

Louis removed his mouth with a little pop and stood up fully to tangle his hands in Zayn’s hair and turn Zayn’s head just enough to be able to press kisses to his eyelids, the corner of his lips, and his jawline. Smiling contently, Zayn tilted into it and reached down to wrap his hand around Louis once more, stopping Louis in his tracks and causing him to shudder as he grew fully hard once more. Zayn kissed Louis’ ear and his neck, his cheek and tugged at his lower lip lightly with his teeth. Louis could feel himself edging and murmured something as warning and, even though his eyes were closed, he could swear he felt Zayn smiling against his neck.

By necessity, Louis clocked into work late that day with his clothes a little more rumpled and a genuine smile playing on his features and words ringing in his ears: “Come see me later, corporate.”

Running his fingers gently over his two tattoos, Louis sat at his desk in a state of bliss. _Yeah_ , he thought, _I’ll be seeing a lot of Zayn._

**Author's Note:**

> we had NO IDEA that we shipped zouis until like three weeks ago. it's a problem.  
> 


End file.
